Fic: Five Times Mike deals with Nate getting hurt, Brad/Nate

[anamie_me]

Title: Five Times Mike deals with Nate getting hurt
Pairing: implied Brad/Nate
Words: 550
Disclaimer: This is a piece of fiction based on the HBO miniseries Generation Kill as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, Marc Menchaca and others. No profit is being made on this, nor harm meant.

Summary: It is Mike's job to watch.

1. Mike watches the red drops spill across the map, cased in Plexiglass, showing the journey of twenty-five lives, a hundred square kilometres at a time, marked out with blue ink. He tears off a strip of bandage, wraps it around Nate's finger, red already spreading across white.
    
2. Nate cuts his left hand open when he flings himself down the other side of the berm, shrapnel flying, hands reaching out to break his fall, catching instead on a piece of shrapnel, it's sharp edge tearing cleanly into flesh. He waves Doc Bryan off, orders him to check on the others. Mike watches as he tries awkwardly to tie it off, one handed. Mike steps up, takes the bandage in his hands, wipes the wound down with an antiseptic wipe, presses the dressing over the wound, firm but gentle, secures it with tape from a rolled coil he snaps off with his teeth. His fingers form a complete circle round Nate's wrist. "Thanks, Nanny Wynn", Nate teases.  Mike laughs, drops Nate's hand from his grip.
    
3. Mike watches as Nate loses his mind. He wants to tell him it's war, people die. It's not on you. He goes to check on Christeson and Stafford at the back of the Humvee, instead.
    
4. Mike fidgets in the passenger seat, each position more uncomfortable than the last, precious minutes of sleep slipping away like so much sand in this goddamn desert. He turns to Nate, eyes focused on the wheels in front of him, the radios buzzing with the usual chatter. No orders from Command, intent on sending them to a foolish, insane death, no reports from the team leaders, informing Nate Command is that much closer to succeeding. For now, they are just another victor in a long line of victors. A strange mark high on Nate's neck, just below his left ear, catches Mike's eye. He looks closer. There's no mistaking it for what it is. Mike wonders briefly who it was, how, when it started, how he could have missed this. He remembers heated looks, hastily aborted half glances, almost-touches across maps. He debates between "be careful",  "it's stupid, he's the team leader of your point victor, your subordinate", "there're more ways of getting hurt than having a bullet rip through flesh". He settles for reaching over, tugging up the collar of Nate's uniform under his MOPP suit.
    
5. Mike watches dark red pour over his fingers, tightens his grip around Nate's neck, forces the blood spilling out of him back in. He watches Nate's body thrash in his arms, already weakening, each beat of his heart forcing another gush of blood out. He holds on tighter, knows it can't help, feels the life slipping out of him, one heart beat at a time. His own breath sounds impossibly loud in his ears, breathe, two, three, four, hold, two, three, four. He jerks awake to the shout of 'Medic' leaving his own lips. It takes one minute, two Marines staring strangely at him, and Nate smiling down at him before he can convince himself it wasn't real. He sits up, and around him, the day is already breaking.